


Who Killed Him?

by over_the_sea_to_skye



Category: The Gentlemen (2019)
Genre: BAMFs, Boys In Love, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Murder, Not Britpicked, Recreational Drug Use, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23577727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/over_the_sea_to_skye/pseuds/over_the_sea_to_skye
Summary: A murder occurred in a remote inn, and Mickey and Raymond are the only two suspects.
Relationships: Mickey Pearson/Raymond Smith
Comments: 2
Kudos: 82





	Who Killed Him?

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [谁杀了他](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586295) by [koosiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koosiss/pseuds/koosiss). 



> I am **obsessed** with this pairing after watching The Gentlemen, it's like if Harry & Eggsy from Kingsman threw all their morals in the trash and sold weed instead. Oh, and if Harry was American.  
> I am also quite surprised by the fact that it hasn't received more attention. Come on, guys! Matthew McConaughey? Charlie Hunnam? Hugh fuckin' Grant? Not to mention all the innuendos & flirting Guy Ritchie put in there just for funsies.  
> Anyways, I've discovered quite a few fics on the treasure trove that is the biggest Chinese fan fiction archive: 随缘居(suí yúan jū). This one here is a translation of a beautiful work originally posted on there.

Bill Bana arrives at the crime scene a mere forty-five minutes after the call.  


The small inn was built one and a half centuries ago on the outskirts of London, which once was a bustling downtown district and now is a dwindling village. Struggling to survive, the inn clutches onto the connections made during its long-gone era of fame. Only the inn’s lobby reveals, through the group photos framed on its walls, its erstwhile glory.  


Bill walks up the stairs, its ancient wooden floorboards creaking with every step. The inn has already been cleared by the police. He follows drifting voices to the noisiest room, noting on his way that there isn’t a single surveillance camera.  


Forty-five minutes ago, someone phoned in from a telephone booth, claiming to hear gunshots being fired in the inn. When the police arrived, they were just in time to see a body in this room, along with the two suspects.  


The stroke of luck is uncanny.  


The body is lying on the bit of floor connecting the living room to the bedroom, sporting a clear wound at his heart. The blood is enough to stain a good portion of the carpet crimson. The victim is pretty young, his expression somewhat shocked. Bill looks around to see a dozen of policemen, forensic officers, and pathologists busy at work.  


“The victim’s driver’s licence and wallet are both present, so it’s not difficult to identify him, the only thing is…” Sara Miller, his colleague, furrows her brows, “There is no trace of the murder weapon.”  


Bill nods, the news not especially good or bad for him, “I heard the suspects are caught on the scene?”  


“They’ve been brought back to Scotland yard already.”  


Bill has been working at Scotland yard for nearly thirty years with all kinds of murders under his belt, but he hasn’t seen that many suspects caught redhanded.  


He looks them up in the file: _Mickey Pearson and Raymond Smith._  


Their reputation precedes them. Excited, Bill loosens his tie, feeling like all his blood is rushing towards his head. Not a single police detective would pass up a murder case with the infamous Mickey Pearson as a suspect. Ever. 

* * *

Bill walks into the interrogation room. For a murder suspect, Mickey’s attitude is too nonchalant: he’s casually leaning on his chair, as if that isn’t a horrible, completely unergonomic metal chair, but a plush sofa. He nods at Bill and speaks in his usual drawl:  


“It’s been a long time, Detective Bana.”  


Bill’s not expecting Mickey to still remember him from something long ago. It was from when Bana was still patrolling the streets, and Mickey was still an American thug head-to-toe, from his accent, his clothes to that annoying smirk, a trademark of American youths — although nowadays many English youths have picked it up too. Sara once pointed out his bias towards Americans, and Bill can admit that’s probably true, but he still doesn’t like Mickey Pearson.  


When Mickey, brought in for street fighting by Bill, dished out his American passport and Student ID from Oxford, that trouble-fearing boss of Bill’s immediately decided to pretend the offence never happened, sending Mickey back respectfully, but not before giving him a free lunch.  


“Mickey Pearson”, Bill opens the file in front of him, feeling a sort of vindictive glee, “I’m not here to reminisce, after all, I’m in a hurry. Locking up a bastard like you is something every person would hurry to do.  


“But Detective Bana, you play an important role in my life,” Mickey leans against the table, shortening the distance between them, “I have only set foot in the police station twice, and you have been the host both times.”  


“The difference is, I’m not letting you walk out unscathed this time.” Bill speaks more slowly in a lowered voice. Both of them know it’s an intimidation tactic.  


“We’ll see about that.” Mickey leans back against the back of the chair.  


“Do you know the victim who was found in that room?” Bill starts the interrogation. Their conversation earlier is just like two teams trash-talking each other before the game: the only way to decide the real winner is to battle it out on the court.  


“Should I know him?”  


“Simon Hodge, from Glasgow, born in 1985 to Aldis and Julia Hodge… You might not interested in any of these,” Bill pauses for a second, “but he works for Andy Francis.”  


Andy Francis has been distributing marijuana in London since the nineties, and once had a monopoly over the entire marijuana market in England.  


“If I didn’t remember wrong, Francis is your biggest rival.”  


“What can I say? Rivals are not everlasting.” Mickey says vaguely.  


“Neither friends nor rivals are everlasting.” Bill turns his gaze towards the wall between his and the adjacent room. “If your henchman has confessed, then all your silly words and arrogance will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.”  


Mickey smiles contemptuously. “You don’t understand me, or Ray.”

* * *

Bill truly doesn’t understand Raymond Smith.  


The word on the street is, Raymond’s simply a loyal right hand man, a bodyguard, a chauffeur, a symbol of the power his superior wields.  


Just like only the beautiful is deserving of precious jewelry, and only the best rider is deserving of a fine steed, only the cream of the crop in the underworld is deserving of a perfect, unassuming right hand man.  


To Bill, Raymond, who’s sitting in front of him, doesn’t seem like a mobster, but like a scholar who accidentally stumbled into a dangerous world. He’s wearing a shirt and vest of exceptional tailoring, a pair of gold frame glasses, and even his beard looks trimmed and soft. He crosses his hands on the table, looking at Bill with an honest and friendly expression.  


“Raymond Smith, born in South Kensington, London, father working at Goldman Sachs, mother teaching at Imperial College London. What I want to know is, how can a kid raised by this family follow an American thug to sell marijuana?”  


“Got a smoke?” Raymond asks.  


Bill hands him a cigarette and a lighter. Raymond takes them, lights the cigarette, then enjoys the first inhale, his eyes fluttering shut.

* * *

The first time Raymond saw Mickey was at a freshers’ party held by Oxford’s Department of Sociology. Raymond had worn a meticulous suit, his tie in a perfect Windsor, surrounded by a group of equally appropriately dressed youths. Most people had gone off to dance, he stayed at the self-serve bar, sipping a cup of basically alcohol-free punch, completely uninterested in socializing.  


A brunet in a leather jacket caught Raymond’s eye. He made him think of a panther, a beautiful feline, composed and dangerous. He approached Raymond, crossed his arms, and said in an unmistakably American accent: “Bored?”  


“A bit.”  


“I’m throwing a better party.”  


Raymond couldn’t explain why he would listen to him, he thought this American had a deadly appeal, and only long after would he understand what that appeal was.  


Raymond followed the American to the other party, which had real alcohol, cigarettes and weed, and it was at this party he learned the stranger’s name: Mickey Pearson, a man who singlehandedly transformed Oxford University to the garden of Eden. What Raymond found funny was, he wasn’t even an Englishman.  
Englishmen, especially upperclass Englishmen, were inherently arrogant. They were polite and genteel on the surface, but they would only open their arms for the precious few in the same class as them. Aided by his charisma and horticultural magic, Mickey broke their defences apart, making them candid, wanton, even.  


At last, the party’s end was signalled by late night police sirens. Raymond, herded by the fleeing crowd, had never felt more alive. 

* * *

“I can understand your loyalty to your boss, but loyalty is built on the condition that it doesn’t harm oneself.” Bill, seeing that he’s still silent, continues, “Only the two of you were at the scene, so one of you has to pay the price for his death.”  


“What if I say that he was dead by the time we got there?” Raymond’s cigarette is close to burning out, he carelessly flicks the ashes onto the table. “Mickey and I did nothing.”  


“Fine, just tell me where the gun is.”  


Raymond shrugs. “I have no idea, Mr.Bana.”  


Someone walks in to hand him a file. Bill opens it and reads for a moment, before lifting his head, a complicated expression on his face. “Your gunpowder residue test result was positive.”  


“You did it, Ray.”

* * *

“Time’s up, you can leave.” A policeman opens the door to Mickey’s interrogation room.  


“What about Ray?”  


“Who? You mean the guy who came with you? He can’t leave.”  


“Why can’t he leave?” Mickey stands up, aggressiveness seeping into his voice.  


“He can’t leave because his gunpowder residue test has a positive result.” Bill walks in with a sullen expression, “I want him to be able to leave just as much as you do, because I know even if he fired the shot, it was because of your order. The real murderer isn’t Raymond, it’s you.”  


Mickey glares at Bill with bloodshot eyes. “I will never force Ray to do anything he does not want to.”  


Bill sneers. “Are you gloating? Gloating that you have a henchman who’s so loyal he’ll do anything for you?”  


“Ray is my friend,” Mickey says at last, “I told you already: you don’t understand me, or Ray, and what’s more, you don't understand our relationship.”

* * *

No henchman would be loyal enough to do anything for his boss. Everyone draws the line somewhere, it is only a matter of where they draw the line, and whether they are willing to bend it. Ray's line is fairly flexible.  


He doesn’t like violence. It might have something to do with his upbringing, but he prefers to resolve conflicts peacefully: negotiation, money, or loaded words which aren’t outright threats. Nevertheless, he always carries a gun. Violence will always be his last safety catch.  


He’s a neat freak: he hates addicts, dark, dank environments, bacteria, strangers’ body fluids, and all the things one imagines to be unpleasant. However, with no other choice, he can take storing an addict’s body in the freezer in his house meant for A5 Wagyu.  


He enjoys glamorous things: a nice three-story with a garden downtown, bespoke suits and shirts, eclectic expensive curiosities, high-end Japanese or French cuisine, bottles of wine costing several thousand pounds each. However, he can tolerate having the occasional ten-pound hamburger combo with his boss.  


In the early years when Mickey was still counting on his viciousness and resoluteness to steady his feet in a foreign land, he had to meet five to six different clients every day, and if you add all sorts of colleagues and connections in the underworld… Doing a simple math, if you multiply twenty — the number of people he meets everyday — by three hundred sixty days (he only has a five-day break), that’s seven thousand two hundred people. Twenty percent of these seven thousand two hundred people were all brawn and no brain; thirty percent of the remaining eighty weren’t ambitious enough; in the seventy percent (of the remaining eighty) that was left, forty percent were either too old or too young; one half of the ones left were too immoral; the remaining one thousand two hundred and nine consisted of sixty percent of cowards; seventy percent of the rest had criminal records; eighty percent of the finalists just didn’t looked right to Mickey… The twenty-nine individuals left barely met Mickey’s standards for a suitable right hand man. Within them, well, _there was only one Raymond Smith._

* * *

Before they formally met, Mickey had seen Raymond a couple times around Oxford. Ray was of the antisocial type who would be miraculously well-liked when they actually socialize. In the Department of Sociology, Ray was popular, with every research group wanting a guy like him, because he could put the subjects at ease during field research and obtain the most pertinent information.  


One day Mickey was conducting business in the red light district, and ran into a little problem. A group of former clients were claiming that the weed he sold them wasn’t the real deal, and as quoted, “felt like drinking tap water when you smoke it”. He couldn’t correct them by saying smoking weed and drinking tap water were two radically different concepts, because his henchman wasn’t there with him — he was probably getting jumped on in the loo.  


The only weapon he had on him was a dagger, and there were six guys opposing him.  


“I can’t refund you, because my goods didn’t have anything wrong with them.” Admitting in public that his goods have something wrong with them is like a man saying he couldn’t get it up, he would never have any business in this part of town again.  


“I kept some in case you deny it.” The opposition took out some weed from his pocket, and gave it to one of the onlookers to roll a joint.  


“It is pretty bad.” The guy admitted after taking a puff.  


Mickey knew his goods were swapped by them on purpose. Off the top of his head, he could think of two people that might do this: Johnny Cortese or Patrick Kerton, both second-rate dealers. This doesn’t help at all, though, his biggest problem is to convince these guys, with words, or fists.  


He knew that words could only delay the inevitable in this situation, and prayed that his henchman, who was really skilled at causing bodily harm, would get his ass out of the loo.  


The opposition seemed to detect his thoughts, becoming more and more agitated.  


“Hey Ricky,” at this point, a blond youth in a baseball jacket and saggy pants strutted over, then tapped on one of the opposing guys’ shoulder.  


Mickey didn’t recognize him at first. He could hardly be blamed: no one had ever seen Raymond dressed like that, nor had anyone ever seen his hair hang free, safe from a copious amount of hair mousse.  


“Patrick wanted to say hi.” the youth grinned. Only then did Mickey recognize he seemed to be a fellow Oxford student, the one who always played dress up and wore a pair of gentlemanly glasses. Oxford had loads of those guys, Mickey only remembered him because he looked right.  


“I don’t know any Patrick’s.” The other person slapped his hand off his shoulder.  


“No way, I saw you at Patrick Kerton’s the other day.” He was so surprised his voice went up an octave. “Didn’t he promise that if you fucke his competition over he would supply you with free stuff for two years? Or is it _three_ years?”  
Mickey admired his acting skills. It seemed that the delicate pansies he turned his nose down at weren’t totally useless after all.  


“The fuck you talking about?” Ricky saw red and swung his first.  


_'The situation is clear',_ the onlooking crowd decided, _'these goons are sent by Kerton to trip Mickey up'._  


The ensuing violence wasn’t at all important, it was only a matter of who would be on the receiving end of more punches. Mickey didn’t even take out his dagger, one reason being that there was no use for blood when he already won in terms of the bigger picture, another reason being that he didn’t want to accidentally hurt, or scare the kind fellow student who would be a good fit for Oxford’s dramatic society.  


They were two against six, with Mickey having to bear the brunt of most punches, so when the fight was over, Raymond could still introduce himself with his cute face which had only a scratch at the temple: “I’m Raymond Smith, from the Department of Sociology at Oxford. I’ve been to your party before, I was impressed.”  


Mickey got out some tissue to stuff his bleeding nose, and due to his split lip, spoke in a garbled voice: “How did you know he was Patrick’s guy?”  


“A girl was kind enough to tell me.” Raymond smirked, and bent his head down to light a cigarette, like a real yob. Mickey was starting to think he had been doing some dirty business, and just went to Oxford in his spare time.  


Mickey wanted to ask if he was a regular here, but then thought maybe Raymond wouldn’t like that. To Mickey, solicitation is hardly a sin, but something he had learned from Englishmen was to never guess at what would strike a nerve. In the end he only replied lightly. _“Really?”_  


“I’m here to conduct field research for sociology on the subject of sex workers. If you know anyone, could I have your recommendations?” seeming to note the underlying question, Raymond took a puff of his cigarette, lifted his head, and explained. His academic tone, jarring against his appearance, made Mickey, for just a moment, think he was in a trance.  


That was how Ray made his debut in Mickey’s life, and how he became a permanent fixture there.

* * *

Mickey, on his way back from the police station, thinks about what the hell happened the day before.  


He received an important client’s meeting request in the morning. This client came from the other side of the English Channel, and purchased an enormous amount of weed every year, but had never met Mickey in person. As a result, Mickey took the meeting seriously, and despite the client wishing he could come alone, he brought along Ray as his backup, and Dave as his chauffeur, because Ray didn’t want to drive for that long. See, Mickey was a considerate employer most of the time.  


The place chosen for the meeting was an inn on the outskirts of the city, just a normal inn which had no ties with any faction.  


There were very few people in the inn, the receptionist was even sleeping. Mickey and Ray walked up the stairs, discussing which restaurant in London had the best steaks.  


"That one on Regent street was pretty decent.”  


“Really, Boss? That was average at best. Trust me, the best in London would not be at a place like Regent street, where any ordinary Joe could happen upon it.  


Mickey scowled. “What about the one in Camden?”  


“That one’s even worse. Boss, you need to train your sense of taste.” They arrived at room 305.  


“My sense of smell, one the other hand, tells me that something’s wrong,” Mickey batted away Ray's hand, which was about to knock the door, “did you remember your gun?”  


“Always.” Ray reached around his waist for submachine gun, a sweet yet powerful darling enough to capture any fortress.  


Mickey cautiously tried the door handle. The door opened. They were assaulted by the stench of blood. Mickey was no stranger to this he walked inside the room, to find it was devoid of people. More accurately, there was someone here, but now he was dead.  


A pistol was lying besides the stranger’s body, a classic model with excellent craftsmanship.  
“This is not our client.” Mickey had conferenced with their client via video before, the guy on the other side of the screen was middle-aged, not quite this young.  


“He’s Francis’ guy, I’ve seen him before.”  


“We have to get out of here, Ray.” They glance at each other, before getting up.

* * *

“You know, our evidence is enough to convince the judge.” Bill says, “You’ll be sentenced to eighty years, best case scenario. If we dig a little deeper, get ahold of some other crimes, the sentence may be extended to one fifty, two hundred years. No amount of commutation would allow you to walk out of there alive.  


“However, if you admit you were ordered by Michael Pearson to murder the victim, we can negotiate. You might be in there for only twenty years, or even ideally, fifteen years.”  


Raymond’s expression is no different from the one on the first day, still honest and friendly. He is still damnably attractive. God knows how he was able to maintain his image in the holding cell. Bill feels like the one locked up is himself, not Raymond. He’s been so busy over this case that he hasn’t had a single good night’s sleep in days, making him look dispirited.  


“I’ve said this already, I have nothing to confess. I didn’t do this, and neither did Mickey. We were there by happenstance.”  


Bill stares at him wordlessly for a moment, before his expression became contemplative. “Ray, are you sleeping with Mickey?”  


“What?” Raymond’s perfect composure finally begins to crack.  


“I can’t imagine for whom you would go to such great lengths to protect, Ray, aside from a lover.” Bill crosses his legs. “I’m not judging, you know, this is very common, even in Scotland Yard, as a matter of fact.”  


“Your imagination astounds me, Mr. Bana,” Raymond was himself again after a brief moment of astonishment, “I’m only Mickey’s employee, I offer him my time, experience, and expertise, and in exchange, he offers me money equivalent in value. Aside from that, there is nothing going on.”  


“Nothing?”  


“Nothing.”

* * *

Humans are complex creatures, a sustained period of company makes them weak, sentimental, and susceptible to a sense of belonging.  


After working for Mickey for a year, Ray inevitably felt a sense of belonging. He couldn’t explain where this sense of belonging originated from: perhaps Mickey’s pub, or his car which was scented with commonplace jasmine air freshener, or the couple of people he was always working with.  


After Mickey renovated his pub, bought a new car and a new type of air freshener, and got himself some better henchmen, though, Ray had to admit the sense of belonging came from his employer himself.  


_‘This is dangerous.’_ Rat returned home late one night, poured himself a drink and pondered about it. _‘What would I do if one day my boss dies, or retires?’_  


Despite having made enough money to live the rest of his life luxuriously, he needed the illusory sense of belonging for him to feel safe, to feel like even if the sky collapsed, someone would be his Atlas and carry it for him.  


Ray was tortured by this thought for a long time, until one day Mickey really did ask him: “If I decide to retire some day, what would you do?”  


Ray was taken aback, it was as if he read his mind.  


“Would you go work for someone else or leave with me?”  


“Leave with you?” Ray didn’t know this was an option.  


“Many Americans dream to retire in Florida. It has a long coastline, a temperate climate, and even in winter, it would hardly be colder than the wind blown across the English Channel in the summer. If I can’t get used to the easy life of retirement, I can grow some weed in Mexico. The Americas’ market is no smaller than Europe’s.  


“Great idea.”  


“You’re English, you probably don’t like hot weather.”  


“When I was young my parents would take me on vacation abroad, we often went to Italy.” Ray replied vaguely.  


His employer nodded his head, satisfied.  


After experiencing a retirement crisis, Mickey decided to keep working at it in this island nation for a few more years, so their retirement plan was not carried out. Raymond no longer worried. _‘Worst comes to worst,’_ he thought, _‘I can still go surfing in Florida.’_

* * *

Standing under the window of room 305, Dave took away the murder weapon and Ray’s submachine gun. Mickey and Ray couldn’t make it out in time — the police soon had the whole inn surrounded. They didn’t even go to the trouble of hiding in another room, and earnestly waited for capture. This was Raymond’s idea, because escaping suspects would result in a harsher treatment in subsequent interrogations.  


A simple logic.  


Now Ray regrets it. If he knew he wouldn’t pass the gunpowder residue test, he should have escaped, Hell, he could have tried jumping out the window. Who knew there would still be gunpowder residue on his jacket from firing his gun three days ago? ‘I’ve learned my lesson,’ Ray thinks, ‘I’ll change my jacket every day after this.’  


Mickey doesn’t let Ray stay at Scotland Yard for too long: be brings Bill a surveillance tape of Ray at the shooting range the day before the murder.  


“You can talk to anyone who crossed Ray’s path in the video, they’ll all prove that Ray was at the shooting range that day, wearing that jacket. This is why his gunpowder residue test came back with a positive result.” Mickey says, “Mr. Bana, the court needs a complete chain of evidence. If this case goes to court, don’t you think Ray would be acquitted?”  


“You won’t always be this lucky, Mickey Pearson.” Bill Bana winks, “A person to care about is a weakness, which your enemies will eventually exploit to defeat you. You should treat carefully.”  


“We’ll see about that.”

* * *

Mickey drinks with Ray at his pub.  


“That gun has your fingerprint on it, Boss.”  


“I figured. Have you found out who planted that?”  


“I’m getting there. I’ll finish him off this week.”  


“No, Ray, I’ll finish him off.”  


“Sure, Boss.” Ray is a little shocked: Mickey hasn’t dirtied his own hands for years.  


“It took a lot of money to fake that tape and buy off some witnesses, and most importantly, of course, you were wronged, Ray.”  


“That’s nothing, Boss. I know you wouldn’t let me stay in there for too long.”  


“I know you can’t stand not showering for a few days in a row.” Mickey gazes at him in a particular way, head to toe. Ray instantly begins to heat up, he thinks of what Bill Bana asked him: _“Ray, are you sleeping with Mickey?”_  


That useless Scotland Yard detective only excelled at _this_ line of questioning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Also, I've done something with Ray's name in the translation, if you haven't noticed: 
> 
> In Bill, the detective's perspective, he is always referred to as Raymond. The reason why Bill doesn't think of Mickey as Michael is because he is _known_ as Mickey, if you know what I mean, like, it's part of his character. Michael just sounds silly.
> 
> In Ray's perspective, he always thinks of himself as Ray, except for before he met Mickey at the party, because before Mickey came into his life he essentially had, like, zero personality. He sheds the overly-formal name Raymond just like he dumps his snob lifestyle in favour of Mickey's lifestyle. 
> 
> In Mickey's perspective, he thinks of Ray as Raymond before he actually got to know him. It makes sense he calls Raymond what others at Oxford would call him. He calls him Ray after becoming familiar with him.


End file.
